Storybook Crimes
by Celia Caws
Summary: Rory reflects on what she knows and how Jess came into her life. I turned and saw him, looking deeply bored and hot in that smooth, toocoolforschool, the Fonz kind of way.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Storybook Crimes

Author: Celia Cawes

Genre: general

Rating: totally PG, sadly enough

A/N: I loved Rory and Jess together. In my opinion, when they broke up, it all went downhill from there. If that's not to your taste, browse on and read something else. This might be the beginning of a series, or it may be a stand-alone story. Please review and let me know which one you'd prefer.

In books, it's easier to pick up on which of the characters will be important in the story. The lovely pale maiden is doomed to be lovestruck (and tends to be doomed to die as well for that same reason). A longlost brother can't be mentioned without coming up later in the story. The bored wife cheats or commits suicide, inevitably. You can see the signs. You know why? Because in books, it all _means something_. There is never, ever a mysterious and dangerous newcomer that comes unexpectedly to town without turning out to be either the love of someone's life or a man come to wreak havoc and destroy lives.

In reality, mysterious people move into your town all the time. Just statistically speaking, _some _numbers of them are bound to dashing, dangerous and mysterious. That doesn't mean you will fall in love with them, accuse them of murder or save their lives. It doesn't even mean you'll meet them.

When I met Jess, I was writing. I want to be a writer, but I am a reader at heart. Like any good reader, I could feel the soft shifting hands of fate as I heard Mom call: "Rory, Jess is here…" and then, a presence, totally silent, behind my computer chair.

I turned and saw him, looking deeply bored and hot in that smooth, too-cool-for-school, the Fonz kind of way. Except I'd never been especially attracted to the Fonz and the second I saw Jess I felt a funny hum in my body, like it just received an electric shock or someone had gently opened my chest and flipped on a switch where my heart had meant to be beating.

Pounding, in fact. I was in _love_, you know. I was in love with Dean, my model boyfriend, who got along with Mom (not always an easy feat) and who did not share any of my interests but put up with school marmish, bookish ways. Just because he loved me. Dean, who made a car for me—from _scratch. _Any girl in her right mind would be in a constant state of heart-pounding, crazy, can't-get-enough-of-you love.

But I am my mother's daughter. And cool as she is, I know as well as anyone that the perfect guy isn't always right for her. Max was great for Lorelai, and she turned him down. I'll never forget what she said when I asked her why, _how _she could just blow off an engagement on a whim.

"_Because I didn't want to put on my wedding dress every night." _

At the time it didn't make much sense. My mom was crying, so I just started packing and saved the questions for later. It's not about perfection; it's about the perfect fit. And what fits with Mom, wasn't Max, no matter how nice a guy he was.

Dean was a guy like that. Nice. Good.

So why did this total stranger, standing at my window and inviting me to bail on Sookie's dinner ("Shall we?") make me feel so drawn in? His eyes looked right into mine and there was a curiosity in them, a dangerous spark that made me smile without having to force it. I had to make myself laugh when Dean made a joke about some jock I didn't know, or do an impression of Richard Gere in _Autumn in New York_ that just wasn't funny. But when Jess was around, my face started hurting before I realized I was smiling.

Just like a character in a book, Jess had the knack for showing up in the dark, when you don't expect it. He appeared next to me out of the night, matching my stride. I shivered and it wasn't cold. Just like the murder suspect or the romantic hero, Jess stared at me, stared at me like he wanted to look inside my brain and take my clothes off at the same time.

Dean wanted to build me cars and Jess wanted to write in the margins of a book he stole from me. Dean was devoted and Jess was a charming, beautiful, dark and mysterious thief.

But the thing is I didn't want a car. I didn't want Dean to tell me he loved me on our anniversary. If I had to choose between no car and not hearing him say that, or a car and having to tell him I loved him when I just wasn't sure…it would've been the second option.

The notes Jess wrote were smart. He saw things I didn't in passages I had read a hundred times, books I had sucked dry of every interpretation. He underlined words that suddenly seemed to have double meanings. He wrote my name, asking me questions in light, scribbled penciled scrawl—

I wanted to read his notes in the margins more than I wanted to see Dean the next morning.

And when I saw him next, I tried to be angry with him. He wasn't making things easy for Luke, acting like a little Holden Caulfield wannabe. I saw his flaws, saw the chip on his shoulder—and I tried to find him a little less intrigueing, I told him Luke deserved better. I opened my mouth and words came out about the town hall meeting and how Luke was getting penalized for Jess's fake murder stunt. But what I was saying didn't matter.

His eyes, on me like two spotlights, the funny twist in his lips when he tried to supress a smile. I complained and bitched and acted like I hated as much as anyone.

"But did you think it was funny?" he asked, hitting on just the right note, asking just the right question.

He got me, right there, trying not to laugh in front of Doose's Market.

In retrospect, that should've been a sign.

Jess was obviously destined to be in my story.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Storybook Crimes

Chapter two: The Bad Lorelai and the Good Lorelai

Author: Celia Caws

Genre: angst/romance

Rating: there is only the barest reference to anything a twelve-year-old would roll their eyes at. PG 13, at the most.

A/N: I didn't intend for it to end up this way, but I kind of like it, despite myself. I have left the ending somewhat open, in case I am simply overwhelmed with the huge tidal wave of reviews begging me to continue…or, I could just leave it here. If anyone disagrees with my characterization of Rory, please let me know—I wrote her as I see her, but a friend I let read this ahead of time says she is not exactly 'High School Rory'. You decide. Enjoy and please review.

There is no such thing as a relationship based on total truth. It's the little white lies and diplomatic words that get you through the day—you tell yourself that not telling someone something isn't lying, it's just choosing not to dwell on that particular topic. Of course, in my case, the someone I wasn't literally lying to was Lorelai, someone who I had never _not _told _anything_ before. Except, you know, things you wouldn't think to mention.

If you think of novels as lessons that teach you how to live, then you know better than to lie. Lies get you in the end. You fall in love with the person you were lying to and eventually tell them the truth—then tragically die, just before this person decides they forgive you and love you back (Dangerous Liaisons, by de Laclos). You live a lie, think you're in the clear and then the French revolutions happens, your servants are getting their heads chopped off, so you back to save them and get your head chopped off too (Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens…except, now that I think about it, he gets saved by Sydney Carton, who gets _his _head chopped off instead. Very poignant.)

Even if characters in the book forgive the liar for lying, the _novel_ doesn't. Novels keep score. The immoral get punished, events are set in motion to bring it home to them just how much of a mistake they made, breaking the rules. But that's novels. In real life, you get away with stuff. People lie, and they cheat and they do the wrong thing and things work out anyway. I just never thought that would be _comforting. _

In our house, there were never a lot of rules to break in the first place. I could do whatever I wanted to do, so long as it didn't hurt anyone. I was told my opinion mattered, no matter what. We were best friends first, mother and daughter second. Equals, to some extent.

But even though Lorelai never actually put it into words, never told me straight-out (or communicated in sign language, as she is wont to do sometimes too) the trade off for this kind of cool, no-rules household was that I had to be honest with her. There didn't ever have to be rules, because Mom trusted that I would know the right thing to do by myself. My good judgment would show me the right path.

There's always been a myth that I'm innocent, the angel-child. I never needed rules because they were somehow hardwired into my system. In my darker, more ungrateful moments I've wondered if Lorelai raised me to be her, the improved version—the Lorelai that would do all the things she didn't and follow all the rules she broke.

But I am not Lorelai. We're so close sometimes, I can feel like we're the same person. But we're not. I am Rory. It shouldn't be worse for me to break the rules because she is my mother. One mistake, one lie, one slip—it doesn't mean I'm going to get pregnant at sixteen. And that, that is what I feel she is always waiting to prevent. The day her genes, the destructive gene, shows up suddenly in my behavior—and then, boy, she'll put a stop to it. But shouldn't I be able to make my mistakes? Aren't they, by definition, my own? Isn't my life more than an extension of hers?

The funny thing is, I'm waiting for it too. I don't think there's a destructive Lorelai gene. I don't see how anything Mom did was so wrong. She was in love with Dad, she made a bad decision. But we're okay, now. She's successful and happy. When she works so hard to make me feel like my destiny is to be different, to be better, I think—is our life such a disappointment to you that you spend every second trying to keep me from living my life like you have?

Am I such a disappointment? So I wait, until I disappoint her. So I lied, when I knew that what I'd done would be disappointing. Mostly, that's why I kept it to myself. Mostly.

The first time I ever lied to my mother and didn't take it back, didn't cave later that same day , my stomach wrenching with guilt, was when I lied about Jess and why he came over to the house that night, when Paris lied to Dean for me.

If Mom knew that, she would say it just goes to show. The source of all evil in the world, ladies and gentlemen. Even Rory, Miss Honesty and Light, could be corrupted by Jess, a.k.a. the antichrist.

Novels taught me that a liar never goes unpunished. But when Jess came over, when he took off his jacket and invited himself in when Mom was away at the spa with Grandma, I could only think of all those literary characters that never took risks, that never took the plunge—Miss Havisham, in her wedding dress, hiding in that dark and murky house. I have my own Havisham tendencies…the loner quality. I hate that about myself, that I choose what is safe, without fail.

Jess wasn't safe. Jess was a risk. His whole life was his tribute to never taking the road of least resistance. He could've studied and applied himself. He could've made an effort in Stars Hollow and been liked. But he wouldn't be anything but himself. He didn't care if no one thought he was smart, because he knew he was. He didn't care whether anyone liked him or not—except, and the distinction made me go hot and cold, me.

He let everyone else think he was incapable of the kindness he showed whenever I was alone with him. "You know, Hemingway only had lovely things to say about you…" and as much as I wanted my Mom and everyone to know how good his heart was, how smart and funny he was, I loved knowing only I knew him. Because it was a privilege for him to show me who he was.

Lying can be sign of immorality, evil—the path that leads to hell. But I don't think l lied for Jess because he was leading me astray. Give me more credit than that. I lied, to my mom of all people, because I was already falling for him. I lied because he meant that much. I lied because, deep down, I wanted to keep him to myself. I wanted it to remain inside me, unexplained, all to myself.

Jess was the beginning of growing up. The beginning of learning where I ended and Mom began—we were not attached at the hip, we were two different people and my destiny— and her doom, apparently—were not connected. I could choose, I could make my own way.

I could choose Jess. Jess, who didn't have to tolerate me being a bookworm, because he was the same way. Jess, who was passionate about living to live and not to please anyone else. Jess, who taught me, regardless of how we ended, of how we began (with a lie, with deception) that what was there, was worth taking a risk for. The safe option can be your worst chance.

There was such pleasure in knowing him. There was such safety _off_ the beaten tack. There was such passion, such crazy, mind-numbing wanting with him—and if I would've known that there would be a price to pay, that the pain when he left would be as real as the joy he gave me when he stayed…

I would've lied and lied until I couldn't see straight, until I could hold onto him, until he was so mine that no one and nothing would ever make him run away again.

Of everything that's happened…the only thing I hate now is how we ended. The only thing I can't forgive, is that he never said goodbye.

And today, a year out of high school and a year too old to be lying to my mother, I lied about Jess again.

"Hey, I've never seen this picture of you," My mom calls from my room and I freeze, because other than the school picture with a zit in the center of my forehead (the shame), they're probably isn't a single picture my mom hasn't seen of me in this house.

I think of all those characters, protagonists of book after book, who thought they would get away free and clear right up until the end—

"Um, yeah?"

I methodically start stacking the books I have just bought at Barnes and Noble, into three separate categories: tragedies, romance, Tolstoy (who deserves a category of his own). If felt like I was shuffling tarot cards—in a book, the three genres would be symbolism for the three destinies in front of me: Lorelai finding out and never forgiving me for not telling her the biggest thing I'd never told anyone, Lorelai finding some other picture so I was safe, Lorelai finding the picture and finding out and throwing herself in front of an oncoming train.

She wanted so badly for me to be the good one…

"Rory…" her tone has subtly changed, "come look at this."

My heart pounding, I turn and walk into my old bedroom, still covered in posters of Yale, maps of the world, stuffed animals, clothes I've grown out of or grown tired of. The wallpaper is a pale pink. The curtains are white, virginal. Mom is standing with her back to me, the picture is held up but still in shadow…I realize she is standing about an inch away from where--

If this was a book, Jess would be scribbling 'ironic foreshadowing' into the margins.

"Mom?"

She turns around, her expression thoughtful. I can't tell if she's happy or angry or indifferent, suspicious or curious. If I wasn't about to pass out I would know just from her body language, the kind of smile on her face. I never wanted her to know what part Jess played in my story.

"It's just…you look so pretty, here. So…high school."

I raise my eyebrows, desperately trying to look casual, sarcastic. "Gee, thanks."

"No, in a good way. I miss her. High School Rory." She tugs on my short hair—the evidence of the old me, the me that loved him, has been cut off in a way that is way too _Felicity_ for me to handle.

Then, finally, she hands me the picture.

I do look pretty. My hair was longer than that it ever was or has been since, reaching all the way down past my shoulder blades. My skin is gleaming white (I was always so pale) but my cheeks are flushed and I'm not smiling exactly, but there is happiness radiating out of my eyes. My eyes—and they look, somehow…darker. As if I know something you don't. I am only visible from the waist up, and I am lying down on my bed. I'm wearing a thin, slightly see-through old ratty t-shirt. My Harvard t-shirt.

It's all I'm wearing. But Mom can't see that. I remember Jess, in the dark, in the light from the window. _"Let's go somewhere." _

"_I can't. If my Mom wakes up and sees my bed empty…how did you get inside?"_

"_Please, Rory." And for the first time, his eyes meet mine and they burn. I remember the party, and the bedroom a few days before and that same look. "I can't stay here, but I need…"_

_I reach for him, pull him down to sit at the edge of my bed._

"…_I need to talk to you. I need to tell you something."_

_I stare at his face. It's his eyes that attracted me the most. "Tell me here."_

"_Rory—" Desperation in his voice, he's looking at my bare shoulder, sticking out of my t-shirt, he's drinking in the sight of my face like he'll never see it again._

_And I pull him down, I pull him down with me. _

"_Rory…?"_

"_Jess, stay." Don't run._

"Do you miss her?" I look up from the picture, startled out of my thoughts. Lorelai cocks her head to the side, a sad smile on her face, giving me a gentle look. "High School Rory? Back when all you did was read and drink coffee and satisfy my every whim?"

I laugh. It sounds normal, steady. "No…all that drama. Plus, I'm now free of my tyrannical mother."

And we banter on and the subject subtly changes. The picture is stuffed, unseen, into my purse. I sip coffee, I smile and I nod.

And I wish, so hard and so much I can barely speak, barely think at all—that I hadn't lied to him when he came for me, that I hadn't look into his eyes and did what he taught me to do.

"_Don't say no, don't say no unless you really don't want to be with me!"_

"_No!" _

My mother stands in the sun on our porch, staring out into our yard, into our future, believing in it. Luke seems to play a starring role in every one of her anecdotes. She's so wrapped up in something he said the day before, she doesn't notice when I don't say anything back.

"_You are so beautiful." _

"_Jess…I'm…please don't stop."_

I sit on the steps with my mug in my hands and I stare, in the shade, at the ground, reflecting that I have chosen the safe option yet again.

Mom in light and me in the dark of the shade. The bad Lorelai and the good Lorelai.

"_Wait. Jess. Where are you going?"_

"_I won't go far. Lean back…hey, come on, let me take a picture."_

"_You disgust me."_

"_You love it." Laughter._

Who, exactly, had come out on top?

"_I love _you_."_


End file.
